


until this echo can subside

by endearinglysad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boy!King Sam, Dubious Consent, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2010-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:27:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endearinglysad/pseuds/endearinglysad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam made a choice in Cold Oak, South Dakota, but Dean still doesn't know why. All he knows is that the future King of Hell wants him dead, and he can't stay ahead of the demon hordes for much longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until this echo can subside

**Author's Note:**

> Possible spoilers for S1 and most of S2. This goes AU about ¾ of the way through "All Hell Breaks Loose, Part 1". Written for the [spnficexchange](http://community.livejournal.com/spnficexchange/). Title from "Echo" by Trapt, and all section headings are from the corresponding songs in the soundtrack (link at the end).

** _1\. I’m crippled from exhaustion and I dread the moment when you finally come to kill me_ **

“Son of a BITCH!”

Ellen’s rapid-fire cursing barely broke through the steady wash of Bobby’s low-murmured Latin as Dean concentrated on finishing the Devil’s trap in front of him. The demons were breaking through the door—if he could set the trap before they got through, maybe he could buy them some time. Time to do what, he didn’t know. Run, probably. 

Seemed that was all they’d been able to do lately.

In the meantime, he couldn’t let himself stop to check on Ellen. If she was down, she’d have to stay down until the threat was gone (or at least momentarily paused—it was never _gone _anymore), and if she was dead, well…it would help anyone to die himself, running to her side like a worried mutt.

Except maybe Sam. It would probably help Sam.

Dean squashed that thought as soon as it started through his head. He couldn’t think about Sam right now.

Dean made the last pass with the paint can as Bobby’s incantation hit its crescendo and stopped. The sudden silence fell almost like a physical blow. They waited.

“They gone?” Bobby finally asked.

Dean listened. “For now. We gotta get out of here.”

Bobby was already moving toward Ellen. The little cabin they’d holed up in to try and keep ahead of Sam’s…_followers_…only had two windows, both shattered now, one on either side of the narrow door. Ellen was under one of them, sitting slumped against the wall, breathing heavily and clutching her side. Both hands were bloody.

“Bastard got me with a piece of broken glass,” she growled, face tight with pain. The grim set of her mouth pulled on the scar that ran from just below her right eye down to the base of her ear—they only external scar she had from the battle where they’d lost Jo.

Kneeling on either side of her, they examined the wound, Dean peeling back layers of shredded, blood-soaked cloth while Bobby gently lifted her hand to check the gash underneath. It was long, blood still oozing sluggishly from one end, but it didn’t look deep.

“Not too bad,” he told her, voice gruff but calm. “A few stitches and you’ll be fine.”

Dean looked between them. “Can you make it to the car? We’ve got to get out of here before those things come back.” Bobby looked like he wanted to protest, but Ellen nodded tersely. Dean stood, lifted Ellen as gently as he could and headed for the cars, leaving Bobby to gather the supplied behind him. He settled her into the back seat of the Impala, then went around to open the trunk of Bobby’s Chevelle. They loaded bags and guns as quickly as possible and then got the hell out of there, leaving Ellen’s car cold and dark behind them. They’d have to come back for it later, if they could.

Dean drove, Bobby’s taillights ahead of him, heading for the next bit of safe ground. It didn’t really matter where they went. Sam—or his minions—always found them eventually. He was getting really fucking tired of all the foreplay.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Ellen murmured from behind him. Her voice was tense, like every part of her body was fighting to hold together. “Sam made his choices. Got nothing to do with you.”

Dean drove.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _2. walked into a dagger, took a step back—you turned around and didn’t look back_ **

Eight months.

It hadn’t taken long for Dean and Bobby to find out what had happened to Sam after he’d disappeared from that tiny roadside diner. He’d had a vision, seen Sam and an iron bell, and they’d torn ass to Cold Oak only to find a pile of corpses—two he recognized and two he didn’t—and no Sam. They’d buried Andy and Ava and the others and searched the abandoned town, but there was nothing. No sign that his brother had ever been there. They’d had no choice but to retreat to Bobby’s, hit the books and every contact either of them could think of, and hope to hell they could track down Sam before—

_Before it was too late_ was a concept he wouldn’t let himself think about in those early days—the days before he realized that “too late” had come and gone a long time before Cold Oak.

They searched everything, talked to everyone, read the signs and omens, but it wasn’t until Ellen showed up a few days later with Ash’s map that they realized what they were up against. _Who_ they were up against. And Dean would be damned if he let that yellow-eyed bastard take the last piece of his family. So they’d rushed to Wyoming, got to the old cowboy cemetery just in time.

Just in time to watch as Sam pulled the Colt out of his pocket and used it to open a gate to Hell.

Ellen and Bobby had run for the open doors as Sam pulled the Colt back out of the lock, but Dean was frozen. He stared at Sam across a few rows of tombstones, and Sam stared back. There was nothing on his brother’s face—no remorse, no anger, just that same closed-up-tight blankness that Dean hadn’t seen since he’d watched Sam get on a bus bound for Palo Alto, California. Then Sam was yelling, soundless in the rush of noise coming from the open gate, and pointing past Dean to the edge of the cemetery. Dean turned, sluggish, to see the Yellow-Eyed Demon standing behind him, and then he was airborne, tossed headfirst into a crumbling headstone and blackness.

When he’d woken, Sam was gone. The yellow-eyed demon lay dead at his feet, and the Colt, now empty, lay at his head. And standing to his side, with a look of complete and utter sorrow on his haggard face, was the ghost of John Winchester.

And now, eight months later, he still can’t get that face out of his head.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _3. I still remember when all I thought you were eating was my pride_ **

“Where is Sam?”

The demon was blonde, beautiful, and sporting an entirely too smug-looking smirk for Dean’s taste.

He’d caught her in a diner in Cody, Wyoming. Well, caught probably wasn’t the right word, as she’d actually approached him. She told him she knew how he could save Sam, so he thanked her, invited her back to the deserted cabin he’d been camped out in, and coaxed her straight into his bed and into the devil’s trap he’d drawn underneath it immediately after checking into the room. A quick phone call and a few hours later Bobby had arrived, and they’d been interrogating her ever since. So far, all they’d gotten was biting sarcasm, a few scathing insults, and repeated demands for French fries.

Dean tried again. “Why did he send you here?”

“No one sends me anywhere, Dean. The other demons? They don’t like me very much.”

“I don’t care why no one’s asked you to the prom, bitch. What do you know about my brother?”

She smirked. Again. He was pretty good and sick of that look, actually. “Oh, I know a lot about your brother. Tall, dark, and handsome, and clearly the brains or your little operation.” She clapped a hand to her mouth in feigned concern. “Oh, sorry! _Was_ the brains of your operation. Breaking up is hard to do, huh, Dean?”

Dean glared at her, but refused to take the bait. He flicked his head at Bobby, who picked up the bucket of holy water by his feet and dumped it on her. She screamed, writhing on the bed, and Dean suddenly hoped that the neighboring cabins were empty, because there was no way no one had heard that if they weren’t.

Smoke was still rising from her body when she finally stopped screaming, but she didn’t move to sit up, just lay there gasping for breath on the soggy mattress. Her voice, when it came, was hoarse, but flippant. “Do you have any idea,” she rasped, “how hard it is…” coughing, followed by more gasping “to get my hair to curl like that?”

“All right,” Dean spat. He turned to Bobby again. “I’ve had enough. Start it.” 

Bobby picked up the small leather-bound book he’d left laying on the table by the door, and then returned. Opening the book, he began reading the exorcism.

The demon screamed again, this time in rage. Bobby kept reading while she screamed for him to stop, called Dean a coward and worse, and tried to bargain with them both. Dean just stood by quietly and watched, waiting to see if she would break before she was forced out.

Finally, “Stop! Please—I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Bobby stopped immediately and Dean stepped forward. The demon sank back to the bed, exhausted. Her eyes were closed and her lips were tight, all traces of humor gone from her face and voice. Dean waited a few minutes in silence, about to motion for Bobby to continue, when she spoke.

“Sam’s…special,” she started. “He’s powerful. He was chosen, a long time ago, to be our king. It’s his destiny.”

“Your king? What, king of the demons?”

She cracked an eye to look at him pityingly. “King of Hell, Dean. Every knee shall bow to him, and he shall rule Hell for all eternity.”

Dean looked at Bobby, saw the same shock in the other man’s face as he felt on his own. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? Little Sammy’s angling to take over Hell. As soon as he reunites the splinter groups—”

“What splinter groups?”

She paused, looked at him again, and then answered. “Some of the demons weren’t too keen on the idea of being led by a human. They raised their own army to fight Sam’s. It’s been…difficult.”

“If the demons are so busy fighting each other, why do they keep coming after us?”

Her eyes opened and found his, familiar smirk lifting her lips again. “Well, that’s because Sam’s getting ready for the grand finale.”

“…Tell me.”

She laughed and obliged. “Once Sam has conquered the dissenters, he has to do one last thing to prove that he’s truly worthy of being our king. He has to sever his last tie to this world. Get it? Sam has to kill you before he can take the throne. Sorry, Dean,” she added, sounding anything but.

Dean nodded, numb. Bobby started chanting again, and they sent the demon back to Hell.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _4. Every time the lights go out, I’m in this fire drill_ **

Dean dreamed.

He was in the Impala, on the run from Sam, but he couldn’t feel the usual sense of peace and safety he got from being in the car. He was racing toward some spot on the horizon, not thinking of anything but _run_, but no matter how fast or how far he drove, he couldn’t get away, because Sam was in the back seat, eyes boring into his whenever he checked the rear-view mirror, and whispering to him about destiny in words he could never quite make out.

Then the world tilted and he was floating in the dark. He was soft and warm and comfortable, and he could feel someone behind him, holding him close and safe. And the all the tension and fear and confusion started to leech out of him, brushed away by gentle hands until he could sleep again.

Then he was in the car again, Sam riding shotgun this time. The windows were down and the radio was up, and they cruised down an empty highway, nowhere to be except together. He turned to share a joke with Sam, to laugh with him, and he found Sam staring at him, sad look in his eyes. And Dean stopped, asked “What?” and Sam’s eyes bored into him, and he whispered of his destiny in words Dean couldn’t understand.

Dean woke up.

The room was dark and unfamiliar. The quietness stretched around him, soothing like a heavy blanket, and he just breathed and waited for his heartbeat to slow. He’d been having the dreams for two weeks now, ever since Cody, and he was sick of it. Sick of Sam haunting him in his dreams.

He rolled over, waited for sleep to retake him, the phantom sibilance of Sam’s whispers still in his head. 

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _5. I’m battered and bruised, scratched on the inside_ **

_“Don’t be stupid, boy. We’re all safer if we stick together.”_

Bobby’s voice was clear enough through the shitty cell reception that Dean could hear the thin thread of concern laced through the exasperation. Bobby and Ellen never would have let him out of the house that morning if they’d known what he was going to do, but they knew as well as he did that they could stay off the demons’ radar a lot easier if he wasn’t with them. Sam was going to come for him eventually, and Dean wasn’t big on turning his friends—his family—into cannon fodder.

“Look, Bobby…” Dean paused. Bobby would know if he straight up lied. “It’s just for a little while. Until things quiet down.”

“Bullshit. You think you’re being noble and you’re a damned fool.” Bobby paused, then sighed. “Don’t get killed, boy. And you call us when you need help.”

Dean swallowed, throat tight, and gave Bobby the only answer he could. “I will.” He was pretty sure neither of them believed it.

He tossed his phone onto the seat beside him and turned his attention back to the road. When he’d left that morning, he hadn’t really had a destination in mind. They’d been renting a place in Albuquerque, hoping that they could hide in a bigger population, but after his dream last night, Dean knew Sam was getting close again. It wasn’t where they were hiding, it was him. Sam wasn’t going to stop until Dean was dead. Dean wasn’t going to make it easy for him, do something stupid like hand himself over to Sam, but maybe this way at least, no one else would get caught in the crossfire.

Interstate 40 was miles behind him now, and he was heading north toward Vegas. He’d never really liked the town, but it seemed as good a place as any to get some pussy and a good drink before he died. The road was dark and deserted, stretching out flat and straight ahead of him, the monotony broken occasionally by some tiny trading post or run-down diner. Lights on the horizon told him that at least one of them was open this late, and he slowed as he got closer, pulled in to the parking lot and shut off the car.

Calling the place run-down was a kinder than Dean felt like being right now. There was no indication that the place had a name, just a rusty Pepsi sign and some residual scratches of paint that probably once spelled _jerky_. There was only one other vehicle in the parking lot--a shiny red Jeep Wrangler parked in the corner of the lot. It seemed strangely out-of-place in front of such a dive, but he could see a relatively new-looking coffee machine inside, so he decided to take his chances.

A bell jingled over the door when he walked inside. The place showed it’s age inside as much as it had out, but it was clean and laid out like any other gas station convenience store. Dean nodded to the bored-looking clerk behind the counter and made a beeline for the coffee machine. There were two other guys in the store, trucker-types in ratty old hats that made him homesick for Bobby again, but they ignored Dean in favor of the limited selection of beers in the refrigerator case. 

The coffee steamed as Dean filled his cup, the warm, rich scent wafting around him. It was comforting, normal in a way he hadn’t felt in months. Only difference was he was filling one cup instead of two and he didn’t have to be sneaky when he slipped in extra sugar. 

He snapped the lid on his cup and headed for the register, grabbing a few candy bars on the way and setting everything down on the counter. “How much?” he asked, digging for his wallet and not really looking at the man in front of him.

“How much you got, Winchester?”

Dean’s head snapped up, and he met the clerk’s beetle black eyes for the first time. He threw himself backward and went for his gun as the man leapt over the counter, but an arm from behind knocked the gun out of his hand, sending it clattering across the floor and under a set of shelves.

Dean turned to face the guy behind him--Trucker Hat #1--but was only halfway turned when he got tackled from the other side by Trucker #2. He was down and pinned before he could throw a single punch. The clerk sauntered up, smug smirk replacing the bored blankness he’d sported earlier as he crouched next to Dean.

“Dean Winchester. Gotta say, I thought this was going to be harder,” he said, gesturing to the two demons holding Dean’s arms to the floor. “All the stories I’ve heard about you. Feeling a little tired, man? Should have let you have your coffee first, huh? Maybe then we’d have gotten a real fight.” He punctuated this by punching Dean, hard, across the face. 

Dean spat blood and glared at the man above him. “It’s been a long day.”

The demon moved so he was straddling Dean‘s waist, immobilizing his lower body in addition to his arms. “Well, don’t worry sweetheart. It’ll be over soon.” He punched Dean again, laughing at Dean’s grunt of pain.

The bell over the door tinkled.

It took Dean a minute to realize that, even though he was still pinned, the demons above him were motionless. All three of them had turned towards the door, and were glaring at whoever had entered with varying degrees of rage and terror. Dean couldn’t see who they were looking at, couldn’t tell if he was in less or more trouble until the newcomer spoke.

“I’m pretty sure you have something that belongs to me.”

_Sam._

His voice was low and dangerous. There was none of the Sam’s old earnestness, none of that pleading undertone he remembered from years of listening to Sam trying to convince Dad to just listen to him. But the voice was unmistakably his brother’s, and Dean shivered a little at the cold, confident menace that underscored Sam’s words. This was a Sam used to being listened to and obeyed immediately, and everyone in the little store knew it.

Sam continued. “Get away from him.”

The clerk was the first to move, leaping at Sam. Sam didn’t even try to fight him, just waved his arm and sent the scrawny guy flying back across the counter. The two possessed truckers released Dean and advanced on Sam, slowly this time, trying to get on either side of him. Sam waited for them to get close, then broke left, pulling a shiny, serrated knife from the sheath at his hip and stabbing the man in the heart. The demon started sparking in a way Dean had seen before, when he’d shot Yellow Eyes’ son through the head with the Colt.

Sam had the other trucker down, stabbed through the throat, and was facing off against the clerk again, before the first demon had finished dying. The other two followed quickly. Dean was on his feet now, the whole fight over in less time that it had taken him to get up.

He faced his brother. Sam wasn’t hurt, wasn’t even really breathing hard. He didn’t look like someone who’d just singlehandedly taken down three demons with nothing but a small knife and the power of his mind. Dean waited for his brother to speak.

Sam stared back at him, a strange look on his face. He was studying Dean like he was going to have to take a test later, or like he was staring at someone he used to know and was trying to see the face he remembered underneath a layer of time. He took a small step toward Dean, eyes never leaving his brother’s face.

Dean forced himself to stand still. Sam might want to kill him, but Dean would be damned if it happened while he was running away.

Sam stopped, and spoke. “Do you think I saved you just so I could kill you?”

Dean forced a smirk to his face. “Saved me? I was still getting warmed up.”

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes, and it was such a _Sam_ look that Dean felt like he’d been punched again. He struggled not to let it show on his face, but Sam’s eyes narrowed and a small smile curled his lips and Dean knew it was no use. Sam always had been able to read him too easily.

“Dean. Any one of those three could have taken you out before you even knew they were here. Lucky for me, they wanted to play first.” The smile slipped away and Sam sighed, looking suddenly tired. “You have to be more careful from now on. Do you know how many demons are hunting for you right now?”

“Apparently all of them,” Dean answered. He was getting angrier by the minute. “Probably because my kid brother keeps sending them after me!”

“What? I’ve been trying to protect you!”

Now it was Dean’s turn to scoff. “Yeah? Well, great job, Sammy. I’ll be sure to tell Ellen that the forty-seven stitches in her side are from you protecting us.”

Sam winced, but he didn’t back down, just took another step closer to Dean and kept talking. His voice was low and tight, and Dean didn’t need to hear the anger in it; he could still read his brother, too. “You would have died eight months ago if it wasn’t for me.” Sam ground out. 

“Bullshit. We interrogated one of your minions. I know all about your destiny and this war you’ve started. You can’t take over Hell until you’ve severed your last tie to earth. I just thought you’d have the balls to come after me yourself instead of sending your followers after me.”

Sam looked stunned, for a minute, then pissed. “Who told you that?”

“Some demon I caught in Wyoming. She told us everything, Sammy, so don’t lie to me.”

“Wyoming,” Sam murmured, almost to himself. Then realization crossed his face. “Look, I don’t know what that traitor bitch told you, but she was lying.”

“Why would she lie? The truth was so much more painful.”

Sam didn’t answer right away, just smirked a little, then finally said, “She wanted to be my queen. I told her the job was already taken.” He got serious again. “Look, I haven’t been sending demons after you. But I have enemies, Dean, powerful ones. And they know they can hurt me if they hurt you. They’ve been chasing you down for months, and it’s all I can do to keep them off you. I can’t fight a war and babysit you at the same time!”

“I don’t need you to fucking _babysit _me! Fuck you, Sam! They wouldn’t be after either of us if you weren’t trying to take over Hell.” Dean stopped, anger suddenly turning to desperation. “Sammy, come on, man. Just stop. Stop and come with me. Let the demons fight it out amongst themselves.”

Sam was already shaking his head. “I can’t stop, Dean. And you know better. There’s no way they’ll just leave us alone. Not after Yellow Eyes, and not after everything I‘ve done. They’re going to keep coming until both of us are dead. I have to finish this.” He paused, and looked Dean straight in the eye. The little flashes of the old Sam Dean had been seeing were gone. “I want to finish this. I just have to keep a better eye on you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dean narrowed his eyes, not sure what Sam was planning now. He realized that Sam had crept closer while they were talking, and now he was just out of arm’s reach. Nervousness fluttered through his stomach, but he didn’t move.

Sam cocked his head and then Dean was flying backwards and slamming into one of the refrigerator cases and then to the floor. He rolled to get up, but Sam forced him back down, pinning him on his back to the floor with his telekinesis. Dean tried to struggle, but it was like every muscle in his body was frozen. Dean tried to stop him, tried to say no, but he couldn’t move his mouth. Even his vocal chords were frozen—no sound in his throat when he tried to speak.

Sam was looming over him, looking down at where he was lying on the floor, and that strange look was back. Sam had the demon-killing knife in his hand again, and Dean couldn’t do anything to stop him as he dropped down to straddle Dean’s hips.

Sam watched his brother a moment, like he was trying to figure something out, and when his eyes dropped from Dean’s face to his neck, Dean knew a decision had been made. Dean felt his chin being tipped back, baring more of his neck to Sam.

He could still see Sam sitting above him, but he couldn’t do anything but watch as Sam pressed the knife to his own forearm, drawing it down in a deep slice so that blood welled from the cut. Sam coated the blade in his own blood, then pressed the tip to Dean’s neck, all the while chanting in a language Dean didn’t recognize.

The pain was immediate. Sam was carving into the side of his neck, deep crisscrossing lines that seemed to go on forever. Every few strokes he returned to his own arm, rewet the tip of the knife with blood like he was dipping a pen in an inkwell. Dean could feel the blood running down his neck, his and Sam’s mixing and soaking into the collar of his shirt. He was screaming in his own head, but Sam didn’t stop and Dean couldn’t move. 

Finally, Sam made the final cut and finished the spell. With the last word, a burning bolt shot through is neck, and then was gone, along with all the pain. He could still feel the wet stickiness of their blood, but there was no ache or stinging burn left to accompany it. He still couldn’t move, but it seemed to be over. Sam stood up slowly, moving off his brother and a few steps away before releasing his telekinetic hold on Dean. 

Dean climbed to his feet too, hand pressed against his neck. He could feel lines under his fingers, hard little ridges and valleys of deep scars. Sam was watching him, but once he’d apparently decided that Dean wasn’t going to shoot him or something, he spoke.

“Let me get you some towels.” Sam’s voice was quiet as he turned away, walking toward one of the food counters and the napkin dispenser at the end.

Dean waited for him to come back, right hand pressed against the symbol on his neck, the left hanging at his side. Sam returned, stepped close with a stack of napkins and reached forward to blot at the blood on Dean’s neck, and Dean smashed the butt of the gun in his left hand across Sam’s temple. Sam dropped, out cold.

Dean reached down, picked up the knife his brother had dropped, blade tacky with Winchester blood. He walked out of the little store, ignored the jingling of the bell as the door open and shut, and climbed calmly into the Impala. He drove for another day, got as far away from Nevada and Sam as he could, and then checked into a motel and slept.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _6. Dream me, oh dreamer, down to the floor. Open my hands and let them weave onto yours_ **

_“Dean? Dean. Time to wake up.”_

Sam was talking to him again. Sam’s voice was quiet and low, soft murmurs in his ear, waking him up gentle the way Sam had never bothered to before. His limbs felt like lead, but he was slowly waking up, and he realized that the warm weight on his stomach was Sam’s hand, rubbing slow circles into his bare skin.

Dean opened his eyes. 

He was in a large room. Sheer white curtains billowed slowly in front of open windows, and warm morning sun suffused the room with soft light. The bed he lay on was large, and he was pretty sure his skin had never been touched by sheets this soft. The downy comforter covering him was clean and sweet-smelling, and for a moment he enjoyed the cocooning warmth and listened to the ocean outside the windows. Since he’d fallen asleep in a moose-themed hunting lodge, and now there was not a carcass in sight, he figured Sam had either moved him somewhere or…

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

Sam’s hand stilled, the hypnotic circles ceasing, but his thumb kept moving, dragging back and forth through the trail of hair below Dean’s navel. Dean was awkwardly reminded that the sun wasn‘t the only thing that rose every morning, and suddenly very aware that he was naked. He tried to subtly shift away from Sam‘s hand, hoping his brother wouldn‘t notice, but his body wasn‘t cooperating.

“It‘s the only way I can get to you right now.” Sam was lying beside him, propped up on one elbow so he could look down at Dean. “You ran away from me. Next time I find you though--and I will find you, Dean--I’m bringing you back here with me.”

Dean looked at him. “Where is _here_, exactly?”

“Our home. It’s not permanent, but we’ll be comfortable here until we can get into our real place.”

Dean was suddenly angry. He tried to move again, wanted out of the bed and away from Sam, but he still couldn’t shift his arms or legs. He realized it wasn’t just normal sleep paralysis holding him immobile: Sam was keeping him here. 

“Our _place_?” he growled at his brother. “You mean Hell.”

Sam was looking back at him. If he felt Dean’s anger he wasn’t reacting to it; the look on his face was more amused blankness than answering temper. “It can be whatever you want it to be, Dean. It’ll be mine to remake as I will—you just have to tell me what you want. I thought you’d be happy. You can have a home.”

“You said you didn’t want to go darkside, Sammy. Said I should kill you if that even _started_ to happen. And now you want to go play Martha Stewart in Hell? And I’m supposed to be happy about that?”

Sam looked uncomfortable for a minute. “I was afraid before, Dean. I didn’t know what I was saying no to. But everything is different now.” His voice rose as he became more excited. “The family business? That’s done. I killed Yellow Eyes, Dean. I got our revenge. Now all that’s left is for me to fulfill my destiny. And I want you with me.”

“You want me to go to Hell for you?”

Sam’s eyes darkened. “Not for me, Dean. With me.”   Dean couldn’t move, could barely even breathe, as Sam leaned slowly forward to press their lips together. “You’re mine, Dean. And when I find you, I’ll have eternity to show you.”

“Sammy, I’m not—” Dean cut himself off when Sam suddenly threw off the covers. Sam’s gaze swept his body, and Dean realized that Sam was naked too. Sam’s hand started up again, broader strokes this time, sweeping up his side and down to circle his hip, then up again to cross his chest and finally settle at his neck, cupping the back of Dean’s head and raising him for a kiss.

Dean tried to turn away from Sam’s mouth, but he was still frozen. Sam’s lips pressed against his, pulling him into a kiss so sweet and tender that Dean stopped thinking of anything but Sam. Sam’s tongue swept into his mouth teasing and flicking against Dean’s tongue, and Dean found he could move that part of himself at least, because he was kissing Sam back.

Sam’s other hand slid down Dean’s body, following the trail of fine hairs he’d been teasing earlier to wrap around Dean’s dick, now fully hard in Sam’s hand. He just held Dean for a minute, then started slowly stroking him from root to tip, fingers in a ring too loose to make him come but enough to drive him out of his mind with need.

He tried to speak, tried to beg Sam to stop, that this was wrong and they couldn’t, but Sam just kept kissing him, teasing with his mouth like he was teasing with his hand. Dean had to wait until he finally pulled away, started kissing Dean’s neck, sucking and nibbling at a spot just below Dean’s left ear. The place, Dean knew, where Sam had cut him earlier.

When Dean could speak again, he whispered his brother’s name. “Sammy. Stop. We can’t. It’s—”

“It’s not wrong, Dean,” Sam interrupted him. “There is no wrong anymore, except what we say. And I know you want this. I’ve been in your dreams, remember?”

Dean couldn’t hold back the moan as Sam went back to nibbling across Dean’s skin, nipping and biting and marking him, while his hand kept up its slow, maddening strokes. “—you,” he managed to choke out. “That was—_fuck_—you, you m-made me have that, that _dream_. Sammy, _please_—” 

“Dean,” Sam laughed quietly, shifted back up to kiss Dean’s mouth again. “You had your first dream about me when you were seventeen, after you caught me jerking off behind the neighbor’s barn. You dreamed that I was jerking you off instead, that I let you fuck my hand and then come all over me. And then you watched me lick your come off my hand and you almost shot off again. You’ve been dreaming about me for years.”

Dean panicked. His brain was telling him to get away, get Sam’s hands off of him so he could just think, and his body wanted to thrust up into Sam’s fist, make him go faster and harder, but he still couldn’t move—just had to lie there and take it, let Sam touch him and kiss him and break down every reason Dean had for saying no. “Sammy…”

“Shh, Dean. It’s okay,” Sam’s voice was gentle, but his words were relentless, and he slid down Dean’s body until he was laying with his chest across Dean’s legs, cheek resting against Dean’s thigh. When he spoke, Dean could feel Sam’s jaw move against him and his voice vibrate across his skin. His hand never stopped moving.

“You’d dream about me sucking you, touching you, _fucking _you, and all I could do was watch. I couldn’t change anything, couldn’t feel you on my fingers, and when you’d come I’d wake up with my dick in my hand, so hard it hurt to come.” He tightened his fist around Dean’s cock, sliding up and down faster now, twisting his wrist on the upstroke to pass over the leaking head. “It was different when I was at Stanford, though.”

Dean started trying to struggle again, fighting against whatever Sam was doing to hold him down. He knew what Sam was talking about, and there was no way he wanted to hear the words come out of his brother’s mouth.

“F-fuck you, Sam,” he ground out, fighting in earnest now—not to feel, not to come—twisting inside his own body even as waves of pleasure came faster and higher, carrying him toward the release he needed so badly.

Sam moved closer, speaking almost against Dean’s cock now, lips moving across him with his words, and darting his tongue out to lick at a vein or a drop of pre-come that slipped through his fingers. “You dreamed of _us_, Dean, just us. In the car or some cheap diner, but together, and _so fucking happy_. You can have that, Dean, we both can. Just say _yes_.”

And Dean was coming, shooting against scratchy, over-bleached sheets and an antler-patterned bedspread. He lay on the narrow hotel bed, sweating and fucked out, feeling the last spasms of orgasm zing from head to foot as he fought to catch his breath. He was alone again.

Alone, except for a vision of Sam, licking Dean’s come from his fingers and promising him the world.

 

 

~//~

 

** _7. and I feel a cold wind blowing beneath my wings; it always leads me back to suffering_ **

Dean tossed his stuff into the Impala and busted ass back to Bobby’s. He didn’t take the time to really pack anything, just shoved it in bags and into the car, too intent on getting away from Sam to care about laundry.

Bobby seemed surprised to see him. He knew that the last time they’d talked, Bobby had been pretty sure that Dean wouldn’t be coming back. Now here he was again after less than a week. But Dean didn’t have time to explain himself before Bobby was examining the scars on Dean’s neck.

“Sam did this to you?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered grimly. “Carved it into my neck with a knife that kills demons.”

“That’s impossible. No knife can kill a demon.”

“That’s what I thought too, Bobby, but it did. Just like the Colt.”

“Huh.” Bobby let go of Dean’s chin and stepped back. “What happened to it?”

“It’s in my bag. Picked it up when I knocked Sam out. Figured it’d be useful now that the Colt’s out of bullets.”

“Well, go get it. We might need it to figure out what that symbol means.”

Bobby retreated to his makeshift study and started piling books on the desk. Most of Bobby’s library had been left behind in South Dakota, and Dean just hoped the books they had with them were the right ones. He shifted through his bag and pulled the knife out, finally taking the time to study it. The blade was silver, but the handle appeared to be made of bone. There were symbols carved along the spine, but nothing he recognized. Nothing that would help him figure out how to deal with Sam.

He carried the knife in to Bobby, set it on the desk on a stack of books, and waited. Bobby finally looked up.

“What?” Bobby asked, tone of voice making it clear that he knew it would be nothing good.

“Sam…can enter my dreams now.”

“Since _when_?”

“Since this, apparently,” Dean responded, gesturing to the mark on his neck. “And that’s not all.”

Bobby raised an eyebrow.

Dean couldn’t look at Bobby anymore. “I think I’ve been dreaming about Sam for a while.”

“How long?”

“Since he left. And I think he can use my dreams to track me.”

“Dammit, Dean!”

“I wasn’t sure, Bobby.”

“Well?” Bobby demanded. “What are the dreams about?”

“Uh…” No way was Dean answering that question honestly. “He just keeps telling me about his destiny.”

“Anything we can use?”

“No.”

“You Winchesters. You’re gonna be the fucking death of me one day. Just go…take a shower or something. You stink, boy.”

Dean managed a laugh. “Thanks, Bobby.” He headed for the stairs.

“And whatever you do, don’t fall asleep!”

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _8. I’m gonna make you let go of what you tried to withhold, and I can promise it won’t be long_ **

Three days and enough coffee to drown an elephant in later, Dean couldn’t stay on the road anymore. He was seeing color smears at the edges of his vision and his hands were shaking so badly he could barely keep them wrapped around the wheel. Bobby was no closer to finding out what the symbol on Dean’s neck was than he had been three days ago, and Dean could barely stop long enough to piss without feeling Sam at the back of his mind, closing in, much less to help Bobby research or find a way to rest without sleeping.

But now, he didn’t have much choice left. He had to sleep. He’d just have to face Sam and hope he could either get his brother to tell him what the symbol he’d carved into Dean meant so that he could wake up and get the information to Bobby, or convince his brother to back off for a while.

He checked in to the first motel he came across—a $20-a-night MotorInn that was a shithole even by his standards—but there was a bed, and a pillow and that was pretty much all he cared about at this point. Kicking off his boots, he tipped face-first on to the lumpy mattress and yanked the pillow under his head.

And suddenly, he couldn’t sleep. Dean rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t let himself think about the last time he’d dreamed of Sam, refused to remember the feel of Sam’s hands on his body. His fingers traced the mark on his neck and a pulse went through him. He was suddenly hard in his jeans, like there was a line from Sam’s mark straight to his stupid dick.

Dean cursed and sat up, rolling off the bed so he could strip off his clothes. They were pretty gamy after being worn for three days, and jizzing in them wasn’t going to make them any fresher. He was still uncomfortable about getting hard for his little brother, but Sam had been right: he’d been dreaming about his little brother for years and he wanted Sam’s hands on him. He wanted Sam to kiss him and touch him, suck and bite and mark him and make him come. He wanted Sam to fuck him until he couldn’t move, until getting out of bed was something only other people did, and Dean just wanted to stay with Sam forever.

But this wasn’t about what he wanted. This was about saving Sam, about keeping his promise to Dad. Dean couldn’t think when Sam was touching him, and not thinking wasn’t going to help him save Sam. He had to find a way to keep Sam from affecting him as much in his dreams, so falling asleep hard and horny for his little brother was a bad plan.

Grumbling, Dean lay back down on the bed, spread his legs and wrapped his hand around his dick. He jerked off quickly, just wanting to get off so he could fall asleep and maybe not be thinking with his dick, and fuck Sam, too, for making jerking off into such a chore.

Warm tension spread through him with the sliding of his hand, and he broke his rhythm to slide a hand further down and squeeze his balls. Pre-come was beading at the tip of his dick, and he slid his hand back up the shaft to rub his thumb through the slick liquid before returning to his rhythmic pulls. He could feel the tension of three days n the car leave his muscles as a new, much more pleasurable tension took its place. He closed his eyes and breathed out, breath shaky through his lips, focused completely on the feel of his dick in his hand and the orgasm that was still just out of reach.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in their room.

It was night this time, mostly dark except for the silvery-blue moonlight reflecting off the water and through the room. The curtains were still now, no breeze to ruffle the shimmery gauze, and he could hear the ocean outside. He was alone on the bed. Dean froze, hand around his still-hard dick, but no longer moving. 

“Keep going.”

Sam’s voice came from the far side of the room, and squinting through the darkness, Dean could finally make out the outline of his brother sitting in a chair beneath one of the windows. Sam made no move to get up, just tilted his head in Dean’s direction and waited, but jerking off while Sam watched had definitely not been part of Dean’s plan for this little family visit.

“Sammy—” Dean started, not sure if he was trying to distract his brother or tell him no.

“Keep. Going,” Sam ground out. “Or I won’t give you the choice.”

Dean kept watching Sam, trying to get some hint of his facial expression in the darkness, but there was nothing. Just the silhouette of Sam in the chair. He started moving his hand again, resuming his strokes, but faster, just wanting to get this over with as soon as possible.

He was getting close again, thigh muscles straining as he arched against the bed, so ready to come, but Sam was suddenly there, pulling his hand away from his dick pinning both of Dean’s arms to the bed.

Sam was growling above him, rage plain on his face as he snarled down at Dean, “Three days, Dean! Three days and I couldn’t find you, and I had no idea if you were alive or dead.” He jerked Dean off the bed, pulling Dean’s wrists together in front of him and Dean suddenly found his hands tied with a thick leather cord. Then Sam released him just as quickly, retreating halfway back across the room and into the shadows again. Dean was left standing alone, naked and hard, at the foot of their bed.

“Never do that to me again, Dean.” Sam’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Dean heard him clearly. He realized his brother had been frantic, worried that Dean had been taken, or worse. 

“Sorry, Sam. I just needed to…I needed to handle a few things.”

Sam came back to him, circled him once before pressing against Dean’s back, the rough material of his jeans and shirt scratchy against Dean’s skin. He rested his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “You keep running away from me,” he murmured. “I’m not sure how much more I can take.”

Dean stiffened. “That’s pretty fucking rich, coming from you, Sam.”

Sam lifted his head. "I didn’t leave you, Dean. I went to college. I needed some space, and I was sick of waiting for you to wake up and see what was right in front of you.”

“Oh, right, Sam. I should just wake up one morning and ask my baby brother if he might be interested in fucking me up the ass on a regular basis. That would have made excellent breakfast conversation—Dad would have _loved_ it.”

Sam sighed. “I’m not going to fight with you about this anymore, Dean. It’s not the past I’m interested in right now.”

“Let me guess—you want to talk about our happily ever after in Hell?”

Sam pulled away from Dean and circled him again until they were face to face. “Baiting me won’t help you, Dean. I can still see right through you. I know what you want, and I’m going to give it to you—just as soon as you ask me for it.”

Dean looked away, hoping like hell he wasn’t blushing or anything equally appalling. 

Sam just laughed. “Dean,” he whispered, reaching out to trace fingertips across Dean’s chest. His fingers were sparking, leaving a trail of mild electricity tingling against his skin. Dean shivered; he couldn’t help it. Sam noticed, moved his hand to brush sparks across a nipple, then continuing down his stomach toward his navel. Dean moaned, thought about Sam rubbing that electricity into his dick, and almost came again. Then Sam’s hand was gone.

It took a minute before Dean could speak. “Your powers are stronger. Even since Nevada.” Dean took a deep breath, tried to push back his arousal and studied Sam. “What did you do, Sammy?”

Sam grinned at him, a dangerous flash of teeth and snapped his fingers together. “Well, let’s just say that practice makes perfect. I can’t believe I was so afraid of this, Dean. Do you know what I can do now?”

“Sammy, you’ve got to fight thi—”

Sam slammed Dean against the wall. Dean knew it was a dream, but he still felt the impact, the quick shock of the sudden stop zing down his spine. Dean found himself pinned, one of Sam’s massive hands at his throat and the other holding his bound hands to the wall above his head. “I still don’t think you get it, Dean. I’m going to be the king of Hell. The only thing I _have_ to do is claim my throne. Now you, on the other hand, do have to do something.” He leaned in close, pressing his lips to Dean’s ear and whispered, “You, Dean, have to get down on your knees and suck my dick. And after I’m done fucking your mouth, you can ask me what you came here to ask. If you can still talk.”

He pushed Dean down, guiding him to his knees. Dean’s mouth had gone dry, a sudden burst of renewed arousal shooting through his body with Sam’s words. He knelt at his brother’s feet and noticed for the first time that Sam was hard. Sam unzipped his pants, let them fall to the floor and stepped out of them. 

Dean’s mouth watered, moisture rushing in, and he fell forward, using his bound hands to guide Sam’s massive cock into his mouth. Sam let him work at it for a while, let him lick and suck and kiss his way down the shaft, but then he took Dean’s head in his hands and pushed in deep, until the head of his cock was tight in Dean’s throat. He pulled back out again, slowly, giving Dean a chance to breathe, then he was pushing in again, fucking Dean’s mouth slow and hard.

Dean tried to relax, tipped his head and opened his throat, but he could feel the increasing need to breathe. He wanted to pull back, wanted to cough, but Sam was holding him too tightly, sliding in and out, but never far enough. Lights were flashing behind his eyelids, but the tightening in his chest was being answered by a tightening in his balls. Sam thrust in a few more times then he was coming across Dean’s tongue, come flooding his mouth and trickling down his throat, and Sam’s grunt of pleasured release combined with the taste of him in Dean’s mouth was enough to push him over the edge he’d been teetering on all night, and he was coming too.

Sam dropped to his knees in front of Dean, kissed a few stray drops of come from Dean’s lips. His hands were still holding Dean’s face, and he pulled back from the kiss and stared into Dean’s eyes.

“Soon,” he whispered, and pressed one last kiss to Dean’s swollen mouth. When Dean opened his eyes again, he was back in his motel, alone.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the cold silence of the room.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _9. crash into my arms—I want you—you don’t agree, but you don’t refuse—I know you_ **

Dean was exhausted. He’d had a long night, hadn’t really been able to go back to sleep after waking up from his dream of Sam. He’d royally fucked that up. Hadn’t found out a thing and let Sam turn him inside out again. 

Fuck it. He needed coffee.

There was a Denny’s next to his motel, and he stumbled in and looked around, tired enough to not even be surprised that Sam was there waiting for him, two cups of coffee steaming on the table in front of him.

Sam watched him, waited patiently as Dean sunk into the booth across from him and wrapped his hands around the cup closest to him. The smell alone was enough to revive him somewhat, and he took the first sip gratefully, enjoying the warmth spreading through his limbs with the influx of caffeine.

Sam was still silently looking at him, gaze calm and fond as he watched Dean come alive. It was a ritual they’d shared many times throughout their lives. Now it just made Dean sad.

He waited until a waitress came along and refilled his cup to break the silence. “What do you want from me, Sammy?” 

Sam answers right away, staring not at Dean, finally, but into his empty cup.  “You know what I want.” 

“You want me to go to Hell with you. I can’t do that Sam.”

Sam leaned forward. “I want you to be _with_ me, Dean. I can’t think when you’re not around.”

Dean barked out a laugh, couldn’t help it, but it wasn’t happy. “I can’t think when you’re around, Sammy.”

Sam looked angry. “Yes, you can; you just don’t like what you think about.” He pushed his cup away and stood, reaching into his pocket and dropping a couple bills on the table. “Here’s the deal, Dean.”

He leaned down over the table, getting close to Dean’s face. “You’re mine, and I want you by my side. So you have two choices: you can keep running, and I can keep hunting you down. And the next time I find you, I will take you home. I will put one silver manacle around your ankle and a silver collar around your throat, and I will chain you to the bed in my chambers, and you can spend the rest of eternity pretending that you don’t want to be there. Or,” he said, standing up again and turning partially away from Dean. “You can be honest with us both and tell me that there is nowhere you would rather be than by my side. And you can come with me and we can be together, forever.”

Dean took a shaky breath, not sure what to say, but Sam didn’t give him the chance. His head turned back to Dean, and their eyes caught, and Dean was frozen in the naked longing in his brother’s gaze. “You know how to find me,” Sam whispered, and then he turned and left.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _10. you got my back against the wall, chained down like a sitting duck just waiting for the fall_ **

Dean sat in the booth for a while after Sam left, thinking about what his brother had said. Despite Sam’s words, he hadn’t given his brother much choice; Hell was in his future, one way or another.

He finally got up to leave, dropping a few more dollars on the table next to the ones Sam had left behind. He had to get back to Bobby’s, see if he had found anything more that could help Dean figure out what to do.

He stepped out into the sun, grateful that the day was warm even this early in the morning, and he headed back across the parking lot to where he’d left the Impala parked outside his room. He rounded the corner of the building and came face-to-face with a man.

“Sorry, man,” he muttered, moving to go around the guy, when something hit him across the back, knocking him to the ground. A hand grabbed him by the hair, yanking him up again, the pain in his back and head making his body contract. The man in front of him spoke.

“So,” he sneered, sounding like Marlon Brando with a head cold. “You’re the boy king’s bitch.” 

“Yeah?” Dean responded, forcing the words out past his pain-clenched teeth. “How do figure?”

“That’s his sigil carved into your neck.” The man laughed; his eyes bleached white and he stepped in closer to Dean. “He is really not going to like what I have to do to you.”

The demon stepped back, nodded to the other demon standing behind Dean. “But it’s sure gonna get his attention.”

Strong arms wrapped around him from behind, and Dean was held immobile. The white-eyed demon pulled a knife from his jacket pocket and advanced on Dean again. Dean started shouting, hoping to call attention and possibly help, but the demon just smiled. “You can shout all you want,” he sing-songed. “Everyone here has already, uh, _checked out_.”

He grabbed Dean by the chin, turned his head to the side and studied the mark on his neck. “Now, this may pinch just a bit, but don’t worry—I’m sure it’ll hurt you much more than it hurts me.” He pressed the knife to Dean’s skin and carved off Sam’s mark, blade slicing under the skin like he was carving meat off a turkey. 

Dean screamed. The pain burned in his head, a hundred times worse than when Sam had cut him the first time. He could feel the blood running down his throat again, but this time there was no sudden stop to the pain. It just went on and on until he wanted to vomit or scream forever.

The arms holding him still relaxed and he slumped forward, would have fallen if they hadn’t caught him. A cloth was pressed to his neck, held in place firmly, and Dean realized through the encroaching blackness that they were trying to stop the bleeding.   

When Dean woke up he was strapped to a metal table. The white-eyed demon stood in front of him, studying the blade of the knife in his hand. He smiled when he noticed Dean was awake.

“Oh, good. Didn’t want you to miss this.”

He tortured Dean for hours, using a variety of knives and razors to slice at Dean’s skin. When he got tired of cutting, he used his fists, bringing blood to the surface that way, and then cutting into the bruises. He sang while he worked.

The pain kept Dean conscious, but he was starting to lose focus. The demon seemed to get frustrated with Dean’s lack of response, and eventually he left, stopping at the door to let Dean know how disappointed he was and that he’d be expecting a much better performance tomorrow.

Dean just sighed in relief that he was gone, and let himself sink into unconsciousness.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _11. Must be your skin that I’m sinking in, must be for real, ‘cause now I can feel_ **

Dean was floating in darkness.

There were occasional flashes of movement around him, but he couldn’t seem to catch them, couldn’t follow them fast enough with his eyes to see what they were. But he was warm, and he felt safe, so he let himself drift for awhile.

When he woke up again, he was lying in their bed. He couldn’t see anything—the room was pitch black—but he knew this place by now, knew the feel of the cool sheets against his skin, knew the smell of him and Sam together.

And Sam was there.

He could feel his brother at his back, holding him closely, strong hands caressing and soothing his aching skin. Pain was a distant memory, a mere remembrance of existence rather than actual sensation. Dean let his brother’s presence wash through him and lull him back into that warm, floaty place.

After a while, Dean realized that Sam was speaking. His brother was crying, whispering apologies into his skin with the press of lips, like he could force his regret straight down into Dean’s bones. Dean tried to smile, tried to tell Sam that he was fine, that it wasn’t his fault. But he was floating away again, and Sam couldn’t hear him anymore.

Slowly, the flashes started to make sense, but he wasn’t sure if they were memories or other dreams intruding on this one. He didn’t welcome the intrusion, but most of the flashes were of Sam, so he let them come. He saw Sam cutting the ropes that held him strapped to the demon’s metal table. He saw Sam burst through a rusted steel door, hand outstretched and forcing the demon out of a man’s body. Sam again, hands pressed to the white-eyed demon’s face, the demon sparking inside the body as Sam killed it. Sam, talking to Bobby and Ellen, telling them to take care of him. Sam, laying him gently down on their bed, washing the blood from his skin with warm water and a soft cloth. Ellen checking on him, petting the hair away from his forehead, and fingering the scar below her ear. Sam, spooned up behind him, kissing his shoulder, and in between kisses, telling him about the future they were going to have, all the things they could spend eternity doing. Then Bobby, telling him it was time to wake up. Then Ellen, again, smiling and telling him he was in trouble for making her worry.

Finally Sam, pressing one last kiss to his lips.

Dean woke up.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _12. the plans I make still have you in them, ‘cause I felt you long after we were through_ **

Dean woke up at Bobby’s. 

Not one of the various hideouts they’d been using while on the run from the demons, but Bobby’s actual house. When Dean finally though to ask how they came to be here, Bobby just said “Sam,” and went back to his reading. Dean didn’t have to ask any more than that, knew it meant they were finally safe here.

The cuts and bruises were fading, no real scars to speak of except the rough patch on his neck. It didn’t really hurt anymore, but the new tissue was still tender, and Dean tried not to turn his head suddenly shrug his shoulders.

Every night, he went to sleep exactly at nine o’clock, the earliest he thought he could slip away without being rude. At first he used residual fatigue as an excuse, but as the weeks passed and he healed up, and he was still turning in earlier than he had as a kid, Bobby began to return his hurried “_goodnight_”s with a pitying look. Dean didn’t care, just continued to wear himself out during the day so he could crawl into bed each night ready to sleep.

He didn’t dream.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _13. there is no time to waste asking why; I’ll run away with you by my side_ **

“You’re doing it again.”

Bobby’s gruff voice broke through Dean’s reverie and he jumped, hand dropping guiltily from where he’d been fingering the scar on his neck.

Bobby grunted and shut the book in front of him, casting it to the side and grabbing the next one. “You’re a damn idiot, you know.”

Dean bristled at that. “What the hell, Bobby?”

Bobby just sighed and cocked his head to the side, pinned Dean with a consternated glare. “You need to go find your brother.”

Dean just stared at him then shook his head, turning his eyes back to the open book in front of him. It had been open to the same page for the last hour.

“Why the hell not?” Bobby demanded, and it was Dean’s turn to sigh now.

“If I go, Bobby…If I go, I can’t ever come back.”

Bobby considered him for a moment. “And is that such a bad thing?”

“It’s Hell, Bobby!”

“It’s Sam. You’re not thinking straight, boy. You’ve been moping around here like a wolf that’s lost its mate ever since you woke up. You need your brother.”

Dean stopped at that, wondered exactly what Bobby knew, but the other man just waved a hand a Dean’s wary look. “I don’t know anything and I don’t need to know,” he added firmly, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “But I’m not blind, Son. You’re no good to anyone like this, you here and Sam…wherever.”

“I don’t know, Bobby. I’ll think about it.” He shut his book and got up, needing to be anywhere but here right now.

“Well, think fast. And here—you might need this.” He held out a paper wrapped package and Dean took it, heading out of the room and out of the house as fast as he could without running.

He found a quiet spot in the bed of an old Ford rusting out in the yard and settled in to open the package. It was the knife—Sam’s knife—wrapped in a sketch Bobby had made of Sam’s sigil. He stared at the mark on the paper, thought about the last time he had actually talked to Sam, the choice Sam had given him.

He’d fully expected Sam to have beaten down Bobby’s door and taken him by now. Sam knew exactly where he was, had dropped Dean there himself, and Dean had given Sam every chance he could to at least talk to him. But there’d been nothing, not even a hint of his brother’s presence.

And that was what was holding Dean back. He wasn’t sure what had changed.

He was pretty sure he wasn’t going to find out by moping around the salvage yard like a little bitch, though. Bobby was right. He had to find Sam, at least so he could know for sure that his brother was okay. If he was but something had changed and he didn’t want Dean anymore, he would come back here and at least he would know for sure. If Sam was just waiting for him, well…it was time for Dean to make his choice.

Problem was, he had no idea where to start looking for his brother. All he had was Sam’s knife and sigil.

He considered the drawing on the paper in front of him. His connection to Sam had been crystal clear after that mark had been put in place, and Sam seemed to be able to find him a lot quicker too. There was a chance the connection went both ways. He looked at the knife and realized what he would have to do.

“Son of a bitch,’ he muttered, the hauled himself out of the truck and went in search of a mirror.

He ended up in Bobby’s upstairs bathroom, shirt off and a clean towel waiting on the edge of the sink. He couldn’t put Sam’s mark back on his neck. It was the place his brother preferred, but there was no way in hell Dean was cutting into still-healing scar tissue. He wasn’t a fucking masochist. And he wasn’t carving it over his heart because he wasn’t a girl either. 

He finally settled on his lower stomach, just under and to the left of his navel, mainly because it was a place he could reach easily, and because he could hide it relatively easily. If there were any more of that white-eyed demon’s friends out there, he didn’t want to advertise his identity just yet. Now if he could just keep from slicing his own dick off.

He spread the paper out in front of him, studying the construction of the lines. Once Dean had told him what the mark was, it hadn’t taken all that long for Bobby to find the incantation Sam had used to bind it. He read it over a few times, committed it to memory with a handful of exorcisms and other incantations. Then he started the chant and made the first cut.

It hurt less now that he was wielding the knife, but his muscles still clenched at the stinging burn each cut caused. He drew the symbol quickly, checking the paper after each cut to make sure he was doing it right. He finished the chant as he made the last cut, and he felt that same fiery jolt slice through him, but this time he could see as the marks flashed briefly silver and then faded into an old scar.

He wet the towel and wiped the blood away, studying his handiwork as he did so. It looked perfect. Now to see if it worked. 

He thought about his brother, formed his face in his mind, sketched the broad span of his shoulders and the narrow sweep of his waist. Measured out long legs and powerful arms. He held his brother in his mind and sent out a questioning “Sam?”

Then he waited for an answer to come back to him.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _14. the killer in me is the killer in you, my love; send this smile over to you_ **

He found Sam in a ramshackle farmhouse in Oklahoma. 

There was nothing but fields stretching in every direction, the horizon blocked by a few scattered groupings of trees. Dean could see some signs of civilization to the east, but mostly it was just burnt grass and dirt as far as the eye could see. Burnt grass and dirt and demons.

He was still a mile off, but he could see them. Some were clearly on patrol, but most seemed to be waiting. They circled the house and spilled across the road, hundreds of them stretching yards from the house itself. They weren’t moving, didn’t seem to be talking or gesturing or doing much of anything. And every single one of them was looking in his direction.

He kept driving.

He wondered briefly if Sam had told them he was coming. Sam must have known, must have been able to feel him get closer. He could feel it. The sigil on his stomach wasn’t burning or throbbing—he wasn’t in pain—but he could feel it more and more the closer he got, pulling him like a hook through his body. And now that he was so close, he could feel the hum of _Sam_ buzzing beneath his skin.

He drove as far as he could, stopping when he was about fifteen feet away from the mass of demons. There was no way he could fight them all, and he wondered briefly if he should try to go around, when suddenly the mass of people parted, clearing the road the rest of the way up to the house.

He drove through them slowly, watching them watch him. He didn’t miss how they closed in the gap behind him, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get to Sam.

He stopped the car in front of the house. The demons hadn’t moved to surround the car, but he got out carefully anyway, gun ready at his side, though it would do him little good if they did attack. He climbed the porch steps carefully, one eye on the crowd in the yard and the other on the door in front of him. He wasn’t sure yet what, exactly, he was walking into. He opened the door quietly and then eased it shut behind him. 

Just a normal house, apparently.

The front sitting room was small but homey, a few cushy chairs gathered around a coffee table filling most of the room. To the left was a hallway, and he wandered down it into a kitchen, wide and open with a big family dining table on the right. A windowed door led out to the back porch, and two other doors turned out to lead to a pantry and a laundry room. On the far side of the table was another hall, and Dean continued walking, knowing he hadn’t gotten to Sam’s space yet.

Then he was in a study. It reminded him a lot of Bobby’s place: books pled everywhere, notes and maps and sketches spilling out of baskets and folders, spread across the desk and pinned to any available wall space. And there was Sam, curled up on a comfy couch with his nose in a book.

He looked up when Dean walked in and set his book aside, a soft smile lighting on his face, and Dean knew instantly that Sam had been waiting for him all this time.

“Hey, Sammy,” he breathed out, and suddenly they were both in motion, rushing together. They met in the center of the room, and Sam pulled Dean into him, kissing him like the only air he could breath was coming from Dean’s mouth. Dean answered in kind, letting Sam’s tongue in to tangle with his, then pressing back to do his exploring of his own.

Finally Sam pulled away, just held Dean’s face in his hands and looked at him. “I need to hear you say it,” he whispered.

Dean looked back at his brother, brought his hands up to cover Sam’s and said the words: “There’s no place would rather be than by your side.” He wanted to blush at the cheesiness of the words, but Sam just laughed happily and pulled him toward the stairs. 

They stumbled into Sam’s bedroom, and Dean was not at all surprised to see billowing white curtains and a huge, soft-looking bed. Neither wanted to stop kissing long enough to get undressed, so they just tugged at each other’s clothing, stripping it off as best as they could without pulling away from each other.

Sam yanked Dean’s shirt over his head, but it wasn’t until he got Dean’s jeans off that he saw the mark. His eyes darkened as he stared at it, tracing the lines with a fingertip, and then looking up at Dean again. Dean shivered at the heat in his brother’s gaze.

“You carved my name into your skin.”

Dean just nodded, not quite sure of what to Say, but Sam didn’t seem to be looking for a response. With a growl, he grabbed Dean by the waist and tossed him onto the bed. Dean landed on his hands and knees, and Sam was behind him, pressing down all around him, before he could even think of moving. Sam’s hands were frantic across Dean’s skin, caressing him all over, like he could touch every inch of Dean at once. 

Sam’s hands disappeared for a moment, back before Dean had a chance to protest. He heard the snap of a cap and then cold liquid was running down the crack of his ass, and Sam’s fingers were close behind, smearing the lube around and slipping inside of Dean. Sam prepped him quickly but carefully, and in no time at all, he was lining up his dick with Dean’s hole and thrusting inside.

He kept a brutal rhythm, fucking Dean fast and hard. One hand held Dean by the hip, but the other slipped around to Dean’s front, fingers tracing the mark on his side as he fucked him. Then Dean was coming and Sam was coming, and they collapsed in a tangle against the come-stained sheets.

When they could move again, Sam rolled him over onto his back and spent the next thirty minutes licking and kissing the symbol on Dean’s skin, and by the time he was done, Dean was hard again. Sam fucked him slow this time, sweet and hot and everything he’d wanted since he was seventeen years old.

This time when they finished, Sam pulled him close, and they fell asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

 

 

~//~

 

 

** _15. I’ll be your father, I’ll be your mother, I’ll be your lover, I’ll be yours_ **

When Dean woke up the next morning, Sam was still curled around him, one arm thrown over his waist. Dean breathed in deep, enjoying the smell of Sam and morning. He felt Sam stir behind him, and he turned in his brothers arms, throwing his own arm over Sam’s waist and resting his cheek on Sam’s chest.

They lay like that for a long time, just enjoying finally being able to be together.

Sam was the first to break the silence. “Dean…”

Dean waited, and when Sam didn’t continue he made an encouraging noise and waited some more.

“I won’t hold you to that choice I gave you,” he finally said.

Dean sat up so he could see Sam’s face. “What made you change your mind?” he asked cautiously.

Sam just shook his head. “I can’t ask you to go to Hell for me.”

Dean nodded slowly. “I won’t go to Hell for you, Sam.” Sam nodded too, turned his face from Dean’s and clearly tried to hold back tears. Then Dean spoke again. “But I will go with you.”

Sam’s head snapped back and he stared at Dean in amazement.

“I meant what I said last night, Sam, and I hope you remember because I’m never saying it again.”  Sam laughed and Dean settled back against his brother. “Besides,” he said, and smiled when Sam’s arms encircled him once more. “It’s my job to look after you, Sammy.”

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> The soundtrack for this story GREATLY influenced the writing--I pretty much started with the soundtrack and let the story develop from there. Download [HERE](http://kathickers.livejournal.com/17608.html).


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